


Private Moments

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Moments from the Infiltrate Universe [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are, John has come to learn, three different Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Moments

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless, blameless porn, our favorite kind. Hah!

There are, John has come to learn, three different Sherlock's.

The first is Public Sherlock. Public Sherlock is the one John first met -- scientific, precise, with a keen analytic mind, Public Sherlock is a pleasure to watch. He's the Sherlock that won't eat or sleep while on a case, who runs pell-mell through London at the drop of a hat, who jumps over building tops and breaks into morgues and bends the law as he sees fit, especially when he's on the chase. It's bloody glorious is what it is, and John has a special place in his heart for Public Sherlock.

The second is Family Sherlock who, he's not afraid to say, came as a shock to the both of them. Then again, no one could have predicted Sherlock's reaction to Andrew, that very moment when he held their son for the first time. Harry had laughed for ten full minutes, and Sherlock hadn't even been able to scowl, face pulled into something neither of them would have ever predicted. John would see it again and again over the next half decade. Family Sherlock didn't mind their children climbing all over him, or interrupting his work, or asking him to come to the Science Fair. Family Sherlock did all of those things, and much, much more, for the love of their kids.

The third Sherlock is one nobody ever gets to see, a Sherlock no one will ever get to see again, because he’s all John’s.

The house is quiet. The kids are tucked in bed and asleep, Mrs. Hudson's light has gone out from under her door, and the building is silent but for the soft creaks and groans of it settling down for the night. They're the only ones up, bedroom door closed, the only light from the open doorway of their bathroom, the desk lamp. It's all John needs because sitting in his lap, quivering, is Private Sherlock. _John's_ Sherlock.

Six years of marriage and he'll never get used to the feel of Sherlock's body, of the slippery tension of the muscle of his hole, the smooth softness inside. He's sopping wet now, lube run clear down to John's wrist, and writhing in John's lap, hands clamped on the headboard behind John’s head and hair damp with sweat. His lips are bitten red, cheeks flushed high, and he's been making the most gorgeous noise for a while now, a helpless little moaning that makes John feel like a _god_. It's like live bloody porn, the way Sherlock is working his hips, tossing his head back and forth as he tries to get more stimulation, tries to thrust against John's stomach. His pupils are blown wide. It's the most beautiful thing John's ever seen.

"That's a love," he murmurs, and pushes in three fingers just to hear Sherlock's choked cry, just to see him shudder, pulling away before pushing back down, taking John's fingers to the root. "Is it good?" he asks, spreading his fingers and watching Sherlock jerk, head falling back so all the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief. Fucking _beautiful_ ; John licks a rivulet of sweat up that bobbing adam's apple, across to the straining collar bone, the tendon there. “Is it good?”

It’s good, it’s beyond good; Sherlock is so far gone he can’t even answer, a garble of John’s name and ‘yes’ and ‘please’. His curls are stuck to his temples, his mouth is bruised and red and open, and John thinks he could do this, he could do _just this_ all night long, if only to have that expression on Sherlock’s face, that twisted, tortured pleasure. He’s the only person who will ever get to see Sherlock this way, and just the thought makes him heave up, push Sherlock backwards onto the bed.

Sherlock _writhes_ , pulling his knees up and back, and John’s overwhelmed, fucking _overwhelmed_. He tries to rip open a condom with one hand, shaking so badly he spills the bottle of lube, and Sherlock begs, “Now John, _now_ ,” and the condom is on and the lube is everywhere and he’s sinking to the root right where he thinks he could happily spend the rest of his life.

Sherlock’s fingers knot in the sheets, and John’s do too, because that was far too easy, as easy as it’s ever been. “Oh,” John croaks, pulling back just a tiny bit to rock in even deeper. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“If—if you don’t move—” Sherlock says, in a fine imitation of Public Sherlock. It’s too bad he tries it at that particular moment, mid-moan with his knees over John’s elbows and his arse full.

“I don’t want to, not ever again,” John groans. Despite his words his body starts to move before he’s properly ready, working in slow, smooth thrusts, bottoming out deep just as Sherlock likes. And Sherlock does like it, he _loves_ is, because he goes from trembling to shuddering, fisting the sheets so tightly they pull from one corner of the mattress.

It’s good, it’s perfect, it’s the two of them sweating and moving and trying not to make the bed frame squeak, it’s John dropping a hand down to where they’re joined to feel the way Sherlock is open for him, pulling him in. His sac is drawn tight, heavy and full, and his cock, Christ that beautiful, magnificent cock that had been so badly neglected, is rigid under John’s touch, so hard that the brush of his fingers makes Sherlock jump and utter a sound he’s certain he’s never heard his husband make.

“Come on love,” he pants, sliding one of Sherlock’s legs up onto his shoulder, opening him up further and deeper and striking dead-center against Sherlock’s prostate. His husband drops his head back and John reaches down, takes him in hand again and fucks, fast and hard and deep, unrelenting, until the pleasure is so good John’s lightheaded, until he can’t hear anything but Sherlock’s soft, breathless cries.

When Sherlock seizes up, clamps down and comes in John’s hand, John’s entire world turns into light and tight heat and pressure, and just like every time, he thinks he’s never seen anything so perfect as Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, coming to pieces under him.


End file.
